


Lady Lannister

by AVW



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Porn, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Forced Marriage, Loss of Virginity, Older Man/Younger Woman, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-25 20:15:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15648156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AVW/pseuds/AVW
Summary: No one will ever marry her for love, least of all him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've first written this last October 2014 when I was a bit bitter over Tywin's death. (I know he's going to join the fallen but I miss seeing Charles Dance all commanding on the show) I put it up online for a while but the motivation got stunted after another while.
> 
> The wait though for the last season of Game of Thrones is proving to be really long for me. So I resorted to rewatching the series recently and that compelled me to take a look at the forgotten drafts I have. And so I found this story and decided to work on it again.
> 
> Thanks for giving it a try and please do relay your thoughts to me thru the comment section! :)

Sansa worries the sleeves of her gown. The pale fabric shifts, uncovers a bruise painted across the jut of her wrist. Her fingers are drawn to it, pressing without further thought. A wince crawls over her expression and she visibly shivers, remembering how she got the bruise insidiously shaped like ruthless fingers. She returns her attention to Joffrey holding court after the long battle of Blackwater. Sweat has left a sheen on her forehead and a new kind of unease settles in the pit of her stomach as the King's lord grandfather is announced. She watches the white destrier trot into the hall, mounted by no other than the head of House Lannister.

A  _mighty_  host stormed Stannis's army and destroyed it, they say. A force led by the Warden of the West in his dark crimson armor and golden cape. The Red Keep has been thrumming with stories of the battle. How the 'traitor's' fleet was saturated in wild fire. The flames as green and as sinister as the eyes of the Lannisters that cast them. How the bay then bled red in the light of dawn when the Savior of the City stood in victory.

Sansa releases a deep breath. Blue eyes fixated on the new Hand of the King. No longer just the Shield of Lannisport but the Shield of King's Landing as well.

The great warhorse is urged towards the exit by its rider.

Her breath catches in her throat.

Lord Tywin pins her in place with his piercing gaze.

* * *

"It's beautiful, m'lady!", her handmaid gushes - in her arms lies a vivid blue gown truly captivating in its rich color.

Sansa's lips part in awe. She reaches for the gown, nearly bewildered of receiving such a gift. She feels the soft velvet underneath her fingertips, slightly warmed from the setting sun. A light sweet scent permeates the dress. The details on it are elaborate roses and twining vines in a deeper blue hue. She's made speechless by Lady Margaery's present. It's been so long since she encountered genuine kindness.

"You must wear it when you sup with them tonight, m'lady. It would please the Que—Lady Margaery."

The smile on Sansa's lips drops. She is delighted that she's no longer betrothed to Joffrey. But she cannot bring herself to truly rejoice, after all she's still subject to the Lannisters' mercy.

She would be married off sooner rather than later. 

Of that she is certain.

The only question is  _to whom_.

* * *

Ser Loras is beautiful. Breathtakingly so.

Sansa has never seen eyes like molten gold before. When he escorted her from her chambers to the dining room, the walk seemed pluck straight out of one of her daydreams. The corners of his eyes wrinkle when he smiles. He talks and walks with nothing but grace.

And whenever he spares her a glance, her heart flutters like a falling feather. Basking in his presence plants hope in her chest. She berates herself for her naivety, but at the same time she cannot deny the thread of excitement within her. Hope is dangerous. Hope leads to disappointments, but what else can she do?

"I would love to stroll the gardens with you, Sansa.", Lady Olenna reaches for her hand across the table and smiles at her with motherly warmth. "This city stinks! Really an awful place for a blooming flower like you."

"Grandmother!" Lady Margaery admonishes playfully, a small smile etched on her heart-shaped face. "The gown is lovely on you, Sansa. Truly."

Sansa looks down at the blue dress. She is indeed in love with it. She's sick of the pale rose colors Cersei clothes her in. She's sick of anything the Lannisters has pretended to give her out of the  _goodness_  of their hearts. She is sick of the capital as a whole.

"I can never thank you enough. It's beautiful. And..." She wavers for a second and three sets of amber eyes wait patiently for her to continue. "And it reminds me of my mother."

A heavy air threatens to settle on them, only to be broken by the Queen of Thornes.

"It's nothing, sweetling.", Lady Olenna says with a wave of her hand before taking a sip on her wine. "You are more than welcome." Her sharp eyes shift to Ser Loras. And the Knight of Flowers nearly scrambles on his chair.

"Would you wish to retire, my Lady?", he asks Sansa, exuding every ounce of charm he could muster.

She blushes like any maiden would have and accepts his offered hand.

* * *

Not long after Ser Loras has delivered her back to the privacy of her chambers, Sansa eagerly shares delightful tales with her handmaid.

"I'm gladden to hear you so happy, m'lady. He'll possibly kiss you soon!", Brella concludes, knowingly smiling.

Sansa's face heats up at the picture created in her head.

A loud knock on the door disrupts the bit of merry Sansa's experiencing. Her maid promptly runs over to answer the door.

Whatever joy that fills her slips away, slips right between her fingers like running water. A Lannister guard stands on the other side of the threshold, a harsh reminder of the cruel reality she lives in.

 _There_ _are_ _no_ _songs_. Her hardened voice whispers in her mind.

* * *

The red cloak escorts Sansa to the Tower of the Hand.

_"Lord Tywin has requested for your presence."_

She suppresses a shudder as they reach the foot of the stairwell. The steps are taunting her with their number and the sconces lining the wall fail to ease the darkness that creep into the tower.

"This way, my lady.", the guard says, already six paces ahead of her.

She takes a step and swallows the nostalgia seeping into her being. She remembers when she used to reside there with her Lord father and younger sister. Her heart aches. Her chest is assaulted by phantom pains. She keeps her eyes downcast, imagining banters with Arya and her father's half-hearted reprimands. She hears haunting laughter and the start of tears stings her eyes.

_How could they leave her all alone in such a dismal place?_

She steels herself as she climbs, dons on the invisible mask she has made for the people of the Capital.

The climb takes a lot shorter than she would have liked. And the guard with her doesn't waste time on announcing her arrival.

She lets go of the tight hold she has on her skirts as the door to the audience chamber opens for her.

* * *

Upon stepping into the room, her eyes find the gold-plated round window first. She has liked the view from it and the intimacy it provided when she first saw it. The rugs and wall hangings seem to be the same. It only feels like yesterday when she had called that very chamber her new _home_. Now the sight of the tower alone creates more and more bitterness in her heart.

"Lady Sansa." The Hand of the King's greeting cuts through the air and space in between them.

With one deep breath, she allows herself to look at the Lord Hand.

"You asked for me, my Lord."

At first she thinks she would stutter, for she doesn't expect Lord Tywin to be casually leaning on his large desk - eyeing her with nothing but calculation.

His stare lingers and pins her in place more than it did back in the Great Hall when he was appointed as Hand for the third time in his life. He proceeds to take long strides toward the rectangular table at the center of the chamber.

"Have a seat.", he says and pulls an ornate chair for her use.

"Thank you, my Lord."

Her knees are trembling.

In her mind, she begs the gods to bless her with grace and allow her to reach the offered seat without embarrassing herself. She eventually manages and once her eyes settle again on the pale green ones of Lord Tywin, she's nothing but grateful to be seated as his scrutiny resumes. Her legs would have buckled if she's left standing. Lord Tywin seats himself at the head of the table, reaches for two silver cups. Muted light catches on the gold ring on his little finger. She wets her dry lips as he pours wine in solemn silence.

"I take it you've had your dinner."

Sansa cannot help it but to feel a lot more like a child in his presence. He's so different up close. More intimidating much to her discomfort. Sweat beads at the back of her neck. Her hair is a burden piled on top of her head with its intricate twists. Goosebumps has erupted on her bare arms and she  _realizes_  how Lady Margaery's dress exposes her skin a bit too much.

"Yes, my Lord.", she answers and sees the narrowing of Lord Tywin's eyes at her words. Her answer has been found  _lacking_. "I've dined with Lady Margaery and Lady Olenna early in the evening.", she blurts out, compelled by his commanding stature. But she has omitted Ser Loras's name successfully amidst her panic.

She catches a glint in his eyes and the slight turning of his lips downwards. He's displeased. And she's at a loss on what she should do to appease him. Proper curtsies work on the Queen. Broken cries work on the boy King.

But she doesn't know Lord Tywin.

"The Tyrells...", he drawls and tips his cup of wine to his lips. "And what do they want?"

"P-Pardon, my Lord?"

Sansa doesn't understand what he means. The Tyrells have been nothing but kind and warm to her since their arrival. They are a breath of life for her in that traitorous capital.

Lord Tywin slips the untouched silver cup closer to her on the polished table.

"You will tell me what they have discussed with you." The authority in the timbre of his voice strikes fear in her heart.

Her hands close around the cool cup. She looks down at the the deep red liquid inside it, and sees her reflection distorted by the little ripples her shaking palms are causing on its surface.

"They..." She bites on her lower lip, distracts herself with the momentary pain. "They've talked to me about the various flowers in Highgarden, My Lord. They said they are a sight to behold and that I s-should—" She only means to pause, but ends up stopping completely like her tongue has been cut out.

Lord Tywin continues on her behalf.

"That you should visit their fragrant gardens and marry into their family."

Sansa holds the lord's hardening glare. She knows what it looks like—the daughter of  _the traitor_  seeking for a chance of escape, plotting with potential allies.

"I declined, my Lord.", she spits out with more spite than intended. "I'm forever grateful to the Queen and still disheartened of being set aside by my beloved King."

For agonizingly slow seconds, the Lord Hand studies the authenticity of her confession.

"Of course you did."

His eyes cease boring holes on her pallid face. His stare drops, spares a quick look over at her heaving chest and shaking shoulders. The tight bodice is cut a little low on her bosom. She spent long minutes trying to cover it up or pull it higher. But her handmaids had reassured her that the gown is nothing but perfectly tailored to accentuate her still developing body. Sansa has taken a liking to Lady Margaery's wardrobe the moment she laid eyes on the young woman. The style is new and definitely emboldened. And by wearing the next Queen's present, she has felt more of a woman grown.

But she regrets that now.

Now that Lord Lannister has no doubt taken notice of her attire.

"Are you cold, my Lady?"

Involuntarily, she shivers. Not from his words. But from the distinct lowering of his voice.

"N-No, my Lord."

Without warning, the back of his fingers brushes the skin of her wrist. A split second contact. A split second where in her heart stutters. Despite his cold demeanor, he's surprisingly warm. And when he cuts off the contact,  _his heat stays_.

Lord Tywin rises from his seat and towers over her. Helplessly, she looks up at him. Her hands clammy around the metallic cup.

"Tully blue." He declares, sharp gaze flicking on her gown again. "The dress matches the shade of your eyes."

"Thank you, my Lord.", she winces at the manner her words are spoken, too practiced and devoid of sincerity. "It's a gift from Lady Margaery."

She watches him walk back to his desk to fetch a cloak hanging over the back of his highchair. He's broad-shouldered and slender.

 _Grandfather_ , Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella call him.  _Grandfather_. She expects someone ravaged by the years on him.

But Lord Tywin walks back to her with the air of superiority reserved to a king.

He stands tall. The several age lines on his face fail to weaken his features. They only make him look colder and invulnerable.

Like he is carved from marble.

A terrifying sort of beauty. But beauty all the same.

* * *

 _Little dove_ , his daughter calls the Stark girl. A little bird. Pure and stupid. Unable to fly. Locked in a cage. Only capable of singing songs and perfoming curtsies.

Tywin drapes his cloak over his arm.

The girl is watching him with her eyes like sapphires. He can feel her frightened but curious stare right on his back.

When he turns to her, she stiffens on her seat. Back straightening to a painful line. Her candle-like fingers wriggling like snakes on her lap.

_A lost wolf pup._

The lone wolf dies without its pack.

And her situation's even more dreary with her surrounded by his pride.

She weaves lies of her loyalty, speaks them over and over until they sound like irrevocable truths. She wears an armor of courtesy.

Sansa Stark is afraid but she's undeniably learning.

And she is  _smart_  in that regard.

Tywin stands next to the girl. She masks her anxiety by gulping the wine he had long provided.

"I believe it's late.", he says and she stands without prompting. Head lowered but eyes alert. "I will call for you again, Lady Sansa."

He unravels the cloak. And in the next heartbeat, he cages her in his arms and drapes the cloth over her small form. A tinge of satisfaction brews within him as she is covered by the fabric.

His hands brush over her bare shoulders lightly.

And a gasp escapes her bitten lips.

It's difficult not to take notice.  _Difficult_. Especially when a blush spreads up from the dip of her bosom to the curve of her neck, the blush matching the thick auburn hair framing her face. Her pulse is visible on that exquisite slope. Galloping and clueless. Her scent's intoxicating. Sweet like white flowers in the summer. The stirring in his breeches catches him off guard.

His jaw tightens. He drops his arms to his sides. Irritated by the unwanted interest that has arisen in his body.

"Sleep well, Lord Tywin.", she bids, more breathier than intended.

* * *

Sansa rushes down the steps of the Tower of the Hand, rushes down the guarded halls of the Red Keep.

She rushes to the privacy of her chambers, tries to outrun her racing heart.

Standing there in the Hand of the King's audience chamber... Standing in that proximity with Lord Lannister nearly rob her of all her wit.

His presence was  _all consuming_. She doesn't think she can bear another meeting with him.

Sansa makes it to her chambers. She catches her breath and clutches the cloak tight around her body, suddenly feeling cold.

On the looking glass, she finally sees that Lord Tywin has cloaked her in  _Lannister gold_.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the feedback! The response I've gotten is actually overwhelming. I didn't expect a hundred plus kudos for a first chapter. Again, thank you!
> 
> I meant to post this part last Saturday. But it escaped my mind. Here's the second chapter now! :)

Sansa Stark is breaking her fast with the Tyrells  _again_. She could have well declined whatever they outright offered. But it doesn't mean the girl isn't desperate for the presented chance or for a more pleasant company at the very least. 

Tywin clasps his hands behind his back, turning away from the plot taking root in the Keep's gardens. 

 _Those perfumed Roses_. Always acting delicate, but quite opportunistic at every turn. If they think they're capable of stealing the key to the North right under his claws then they are sorely mistaken.

"Her eyes shine like gemstones while looking at him.", Cersei observes with disdain, lightly shakes her head in disappointment as she leans back on her chair. "The little dove doesn't see Ser Loras's lack of interest for her rosy cheeks and pouty lips." Green eyes that mirror his own stare up at him with boredom. "It's exactly what I've told you, Father. She's a blind foolish girl." His daughter releases an exasperated sigh and refills her wine glass. 

Tywin returns to his seat and helps himself to a cup of water. Gears turn in his mind. They would have to act swiftly in order to secure the Stark girl and her right to the North.

"Sansa Stark must be wed.", he starts and picks a piece of bread from the basket, tearing it into smaller portions. "Tommen is not yet betrothed." He feels rather than see the Queen Regent  _bristling_  in her seat.

"Father, please." The poison that usually accompanies each of his daughter's words dissipate into nothing. Her eyes turn towards him,  _pleading_. "Tyrion has already sold my only daughter to Dorne. I won't stand for Tommen marrying the daughter of a traitor."

"Does it escape your pretty head that any man who marries Sansa Stark can lay claim on Winterfell and the rest of the North?"

"Who cares about that cold castle and the barren lands north of the Neck?"

Tywin scoffs at her short-sightedness.

"The Crown  _cares_." 

Cersei withers under his stare. No matter how smart she might think she is. No matter how invincible she might think she is with that glimmering crown upon her golden hair. The current Queen is  _still_  his daughter. His to teach. His to discipline.  _His to rule_.

"The realm is of  _seven_  kingdoms lest you've forgotten how to count." 

Her lips curl in displeasure. He allows reality to seep into her before continuing.

"Joffrey rules in King's Landing. His firstborn son with Lady Margaery will sit in Dragonstone the moment we clean it of Stannis's remnants. Tommen will claim the Stormlands once he's of age and one of his children with Sansa Stark will take control of the North in the agreeable future."

"Sansa still has two younger brothers." Cersei speaks up. "I'm sure you have not forgotten about those boys' existence."

Tywin levels a glare at his only daughter.

"That bird has no younger brothers left." He throws a parchment on the table. "The Young Wolf is betrayed by Balon Greyjoy's only living son and has taken Winterfell along with the little lords' lives." He watches Cersei read through the tight letters. Just a hint of satisfaction passes over her face. 

"Once Robb Stark perishes in this losing cause of his, Sansa Stark will have no brothers left besides that bastard sworn in the Night's Watch."

* * *

The news reaches Sansa before midday. She bars herself in her chambers and allows herself to weep.

Her family is betrayed at every turn.

There is no one can they could trust.

Theon has lived with them, played with them. He has grown strong into a young man under the protection of House Stark and yet... 

_And yet..._

Her younger brothers are robbed off of their father, mother, brothers, sisters, and now their lives. Theon  _burned_  them, they say. Burned still breathing or already dead, they won't say. Winterfell has fallen into the hands of the Ironborn. She has  _nowhere_  to name home unless the war is won by Robb.

She  _wants_  her father. She wants her mother and siblings. She wants to be surrounded by Starks, fierce and just and loving.

_Oh please gods... Please let none of it be true..._

She aches for the lulling walls of Winterfell. She aches for the great weirdwood tree. She misses Old Nan and Maester Luwin. She misses the life that has long left her.

Sansa's grief digs into her like a rusted dagger, repeatedly stabs and leaves her to bleed. She claws on the linens, buries her face in the bedding as hard as she could, for as long as she could until she's drowning in her own tears.

Her life is not a song.

It's a mere series of cruelties.

And the gods won't hear her prayers.

* * *

Lord Tyrion is the first and most likely the only Lannister who will bother to express his condolences for her loss.

His mismatched eyes look to her with pure sympathy.

"Lady Sansa..." His small, pudgy hands fidget at his sides. It's difficult to look at him with his injuries sustained from the Battle of Blackwater quite prominent on his face.

But Sansa has learned that beyond what most of the court has deemed monstrous features, beyond what's superficial resides someone who can be called a  _friend_.

"Would you like me to escort you to the godswood?"

Sansa dries her tears and accepts Lord Tyrion's offer. And the moment she sets a foot outside of her room, she feels the unseen mask she has to wear harden even more.

* * *

Delight illuminates Cersei's face, thinking she has gotten what she wanted like she always does. Her youngest son, Tommen, won't be marrying the Stark girl after his mother deliberated well enough how the match is perfect for a future date, but how it's detrimental for the current state of affairs. Tommen is too young to assert. Time is of the essence on the matter and waiting is a luxury not in their grasp.

Tywin picked another golden card in his mind. His brother's son and heir - Lancel Lannister. To his surprise, Cersei objected yet again, quite strongly for a cousin of hers he has known holds nothing of her regard. Squire to late King Robert. Knighted by his widowed Queen. Perhaps Cersei places some worth on him. After all, family is important. He doesn't want to entertain  _other_  reasons for her disagreement. 

_"His arrogance won't do our House any good. He has milk in his veins and will be incapable of cowling the Northmen."_

The third husband is brought forth for his judgement by his  _clever_  daughter.

_"Give her to Tyrion, Father. He's yet to have a betrothed. A man of his age should have long wed."_

And so they wait in the Tower of the Hand's council chamber for his youngest to grace them with his presence. Cersei has worn a new crimson gown, clearly in a celebratory mood for her  _wonderful_  idea.

But is Tyrion the  _best route_  to take in this matter?

Tywin envisions the fruits of this arrangement in the long run. Tyrion has a mind for the manipulations in politics. But the North does not give a damn. That kingdom requires brute strength and formidable will.  _Stark_. A Great House that has stood for over eight thousand years according to legend. The Targaryen have come and gone. Their dragons have terrorized and perished. And the Starks remain reigning over their vast lands.

That is an example of  _legacy_.

And it would be dim of him if he allows that to slip away.

* * *

Tyrion has not turned up. 

Tywin dismissed Cersei and has taken it upon himself to search for Tyrion. But first, he must see to the Stark girl. His interrogation of Sansa Stark's handmaid leads him to the Godswood. And there, he also finds his son.

The girl is in prayer. Pious on her knees among the trees. The Keep's godswood lacks the weirdwood tree House Stark worships. But its absence does not dissuade her intentions.

Tyrion notices his approach, not missing the clanking of his guards' armors. The man walks up to his company before he could get too close.

"Do you have need of me?"

Tywin's eyes flick down to Tyrion then back to the Stark girl under the shroud of alder and elm trees. It's most curious how the scarred man strikes  _useful_  friendships.

"Have you attended to the preparations for the Royal Wedding?"

Tyrion avoids his gaze, looks down at his boots and then to the praying girl. He has always been uncomfortable under his scrutiny.

"I'm afraid not." He says and does every anxious thing possible in the next seconds, besides twiddling his little thumbs.

"And you are still standing around here  _why_?"

"I'll see to the finances then. If you'd excuse me, Father." 

Tywin watches Tyrion waddle out of the godswood in no real hurry. He turns to his guards the moment the man is out of sight.

"Stay here."

The Great Lion stalks towards the lone wolf.

* * *

Lord Lannister is nearby, prowling at the edge of the godswood, watching her intently.

_What does he want? Can't he be considerate like her lord father?_

Sansa has heard stories about Lord Tywin, the Hand of the Mad King. They say he has ruled the realm since King Aerys. Even when he resigned and returned to Casterly Rock, the seven kingdoms has conveniently stayed within his pockets. They say he's the most powerful man in Westeros... in the whole world. They say he's king in every way but name.

And Sansa, like many others before her, is intimidated by him. 

It's useless pretending not to have noticed his arrival, so she gathers her skirts and dusts them of leaves and dirt. There's a numbness on her legs that she chooses to ignore as she stands in attention.

"My lord.", she greets, too emotionally exhausted to even exert false cheeriness. She doubts Lord Tywin would buy the pretense anyway, so why bother.

He lingers on the stone steps, towering and imposing. She resists the urge to take a step back when the sound of his boots crushing the grass reach her ears.

"Condolences, Lady Sansa." 

His leveled voice drawls over the syllables, nothing but an empty recital. Ire flares within her. It froths in her chest like poison. If she can be certain of anything then his expression of sympathy is worth a grain of salt. Her eyes snap up at him, unaware of the glare she's sporting.

His face lacks emotions, sculpted to stay in control and unfeeling. He looks at her as if he's expecting an action that she would later regret. She is, after all, a  _stupid_  girl.

"Thank you." She lifts her stare off of him, shifts it back on his feet, a show of submission to ensure her survival. "Bran and Rickon are only children. And I loved them dearly." She murmurs to herself, fingers wringing the fabric of her skirts.

"Do you have need of me, Lord Tywin?" The haste in her words is made explicit. She wants to escape this talk as soon as possible.

"In fact I do." The lord responds but doesn't elaborate. "But I'll leave you to your prayers for now, my lady." She dislikes the look in his eyes, ever appraising, like she's nothing but a commodity to be  _sold_.

* * *

_"I want what is mine by right."_

Later in the night, Tywin sits seething in his solar. The events that transpired earlier in the afternoon replayed in his mind.

_"I am your son and lawful heir."_

_I am your son_. Tywin grinds his teeth, relishes in the pain in his jaw. Anger brews inside of him. For all these years, he has no proof, only an inkling that refuses to go away. Aerys with his tricks and his insults and his  _envy_.

Tywin holds no proof. To even consider the possibility stokes his rage. His woman touched by another.  _Forced_. To not consider it is stupid. The Anniversary Tourney for the Mad King. The king's obsession with his lady wife. The king's obsession to undermine him.  _Tyrion is no son of his_. He wanted to carry the misshapen babe out to the sea. He wanted to create falsehoods and claim that Tyrion died with his mother. He wanted a lot of things. But he wanted  _her_  returned to him the  _most_.

 _Joanna_.

Even just the thought of her name cuts deep. His breath hitches when he releases it. Composure comes back to him in pathetic trickles. His knuckles have turned white gripping the armrests.

_"Casterly Rock is mine by right."_

Tyrion had the audacity of asking him for Casterly Rock, the seat of his father and his fathers before him. His seat.  _His_.

Tyrion talked about birth rights. Talked about his lawful claim.

The audacity.

He who  _took_  everything from him. Everything that matters. Everything. 

He won't hand it off to  _him_. His so called heir  _by law_. Tywin won't bend to some law. He won't be cheated. He won't be  _powerless_  to such technicalities.

War breeds marriages.

His legacy won't be determined by a half-man who  _could be_  the last Targaryen king's bastard.

* * *

"What do you think the Lord Hand wants from me?", Sansa asks Shae, her new handmaid. The young woman dutifully brushes her auburn hair, lopsidedly smiles at her through the mirror. Sansa thinks of her as pretty with those bouncing black curls and bright brown eyes of hers.

"To talk with you, m'lady." Sansa sees her mouth twitch as if she has more to say, but Shae holds back in the end.

"About what? Surely it won't be about the weather."

That day in the godswood, Lord Lannister has hinted of having a need of her. It had been a week since then. She had been given time and space.  _Consideration_. It gives her more anxiety than relief. 

"Who really knows, Lady Sansa." Shae whispers near her hair, her fingers sliding around the silken strands, looking seemingly proud of her finished work. "But you mustn't be late and you must always wear a smile on your lips when you see the Lord Hand."

Sansa scrutinizes herself on the mirror. Uncertainty adorns her blue eyes. Shae had made her hair into a shining curtain of red and orange flowing down the small of her back. Like a sunset. Or a sunrise. She wears a crimson dress, one of the few the Queen Regent has given her. Lannister colors to please Lord Lannister. On her lap lies the gold cloak she intends to show gratitude for and return.

Her heart is  _thundering_  caged inside her ribs.

* * *

"You've been set aside by your King."

For the past long minutes, supper is accompanied by the gentle winds and the soft tinkling of their cutlery and nothing else until that moment. Sansa hastily swallows the tender portion of rabbit stew she has been chewing, eager to deliver a prompt response.

"Unfortunately so, my Lord." She sees the Lord Hand quite taken with his meal, not even sparing a single look towards her direction. "But it's true... I'm unworthy of the king's love for I am tainted with the blood of a traitor."

"Surely you would like to rid yourself of that  _taint_."

"O-Of course." She washes the saltiness on her tongue with a sip of wine. "I'm not a traitor... And I will  _never_  be one, my lord." The words sting her inside like angry hornets. Every time she is left with no choice but to declare false allegiance for her captors, her skin is like set in flames. Out there in the harsh wilderness, her older brother is fighting a  _war_  for their betrayed father...  _for her_ , while she sits in a pretty dress dining with those who want him dead.

"So you say."

Sansa looks away from the Lord Hand.

Family. Duty. Honor.

If she places any importance on her mother's words then she would most likely be dead, rotting on a spike, mounted on the gates.

But winter is coming.

She would endure.  _She must_. One day she would restore honor to her family's name. That is her duty to herself, what she must see through for everything that she has lost.

"You will marry into House Lannister, Lady Sansa." 

Lord Tywin's voice has lowered to that tone full of finality. Her lips part to ask to which Lannister she would be wed to, but is halted by the narrowing look in the lord's eyes.

"Through me."

_I'm to marry **him**? Lord Tywin himself?_

Time stops with that phrase, along with her heart and the rest of her coherence.

"I won't allow this war to drag longer." Lord Tywin continues, uncaring for the girl consumed with shock before him. "A union between our Houses would be vital for the realm to have a semblance of stability, for the Crown and the North's peace as well. You are aware that my eldest son, Jaime, is the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard."

The lord's pause stretches on, meaning Lord Tywin is expecting a reaction out of her.

"Y-Yes, my l-lord." It's no use, her voice has already cracked but Sansa fights the burn in her eyes. She will  _not_  cry, at least not in front of him.

"With his oath, he has given up claim to Casterly Rock leaving me with no heir."

"Lord Tyr-" Sansa bites on her tongue hard, tastes the iron of her blood, the glare Lord Tywin is directing at her is nothing but  _strangling,_  like the next breath she takes would offend the Great Lion. Fire seems alight in those usually cold eyes of his. Green fire like wild fire. Dangerous and unforgiving.

"My daughter said that you've started bleeding." Bleeding. Most would say  _have flowered_. But pleasantries as such are lost on Lord Tywin. Bleed then breed then bleed all over again. A lady's worth is measured by the heirs she could birth for her lord. A brutal but simple reality.

"Yes, my lord."

"Then we have nothing to worry about. Do you have a clear understanding of what's to be done, my lady?"

Sansa feels her  _real self_  retreating to the deepest recesses of her being. Running down halls and bolting doors. The pretty mask talks in her stead, a shell.

"I'll give you heirs, my lord. Strong heirs... for Casterly Rock." Her voice is haunted, disembodied. A doll talking.

Lord Tywin seems to note the change in her demeanor. But he nods ever so slightly, an acknowledgement of her  _effort_.

"And for Winterfell.", he adds, clarifying and solidifying her task.

The rest of the world fades into nothing. She is to marry the man who would be her brother's murderer. 

* * *

In the darkness of her room, Sansa cowers in a corner, unable to sleep. The golden cloak lies before her on the cold floor, its return unaccepted. 

_"It's yours."_

The Lord Hand said. A cloak suitable for Lady Lannister. 

Sansa shivers and curls in on herself.

Lord Lannister needs an heir, an heir and a spare. As many as she can possibly carry in her miserable life.

She knows well of the  _reason_  he's marrying her - the daughter of a traitor. Her younger brothers have been reduced to ashes. Her older brother is fighting a losing battle. But she would stay - the only living daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North.

She would stay, continue living, and surviving under the grace of the monsters who labelled her lord father a traitor and took his head.

The North only remembers the Stark name, would only honor the Stark name as its protector.

And once the Lannisters and their cohorts are done, she is the only one whose name would be Stark.

So Tywin Lannister would bring that  _only one_  into his bed. To breed lions in wolf coating. To take the North as his own. To consume the realm with his whim.

 

 


End file.
